Page 74 of When She Was a Governess
He narrowed his eyes, glaring at his father. “Oh, I am perfectly calm.” He turned to his mother. “You will never threaten my family again. You will never use my grief as a weapon. You will not try to take Amelia from us.” Henry was shaking with rage. “And if you attempt any legal action, I will fight you with everything I have. I will expose every cruel thing you’ve ever done. To me. To Rebecca. To Eleanor. Every. Single. Thing. To the ton you care so much about. To the authorities who might be interested in knowing how you manipulated a young woman into suicide.”
“Ridiculous,” Constance said. “You have no proof. No one will believe you. Not when I am ahead of you in spreading gossip. Probably as we speak, gossip is being shared at every dinner table in London.”
“It won’t work, Mother. Because Sophia nor I care what the ton thinks. In addition, you think I do not have proof but I do. I have Eleanor’s letter. The one she left before she died, naming you specifically. I have witnesses who heard what you said to her. And I have Rebecca’s will, which makes her feelings about you abundantly clear.” He leaned close to her. “Try to take Amelia, and I will destroy you. Mother or not.”
For the first time, genuine fear flickered across Constance’s face.
“Arthur, we’re leaving. Now.” She rose with as much dignity as she could muster. “This is far from over, Henry.”
“No, it is over, Mother. You will never see Amelia or set foot in this house ever again.” Henry followed his parents into the entrance hall, his voice carrying the full weight of his authority as master of the house.
“Grimshaw.”
The butler appeared instantly, as if he’d been waiting. “My lord?”
“The Earl and Countess are leaving. Tonight. Have their servants pack their belongings immediately and prepare their carriage.”
“At once, my lord.” If Grimshaw was surprised, he didn’t show it. He bowed and disappeared toward the servants’ stairs.
Constance turned on Henry, fury in her eyes. “This is outrageous. We can’t possibly leave at this hour.”
“You can. And you will.” Henry’s voice was ice. “You’ll wait in the drawing room while your maid and valet pack. I don’t want you anywhere near my wife or daughter.”
Arthur put a hand on his wife’s arm. “Constance. We should go.”
For once, she didn’t argue. Perhaps she saw something in Henry’s face that even she recognized as dangerous. They retreated to the drawing room, and Henry heard the door close.
He stood in the entrance hall, fists clenched, listening to the sounds of hurried footsteps above as the servants scrambled to pack. How could he go back in the dining room and face his wife? Sophia had lied for him. She’d felt sorry for him. Nothing was worse for a man than to think his own wife pitied him.
He strode back into the dining room. Sophia remained seated, a glass of wine clutched in one trembling hand, her cheeks pale.
Sophia got up, moving toward him immediately, her hands reaching for his. “Henry—”
He stepped back. He couldn’t bear her touch right now, couldn’t stand the pity he was certain he’d see in her eyes if he looked at her too closely.
“Henry, please. Let’s go upstairs. We can talk up there while the servants are packing them up.”
“You should go upstairs. I need some time alone.” His voice came out flat, dead.
“Henry, you don’t have to be alone. I’m here. I want to—”
“Please, Sophia.” He still couldn’t look at her. “Just… give me some time. I need to think.”
“Think about what?” Her voice cracked. “Henry, nothing she said changes anything. I don’t care about Doctor Morrison, especially if he helped you.”
“It changes everything.” He finally met her eyes, and the pain in them nearly broke him. But he deserved that pain. Deserved worse. “You married a man you barely knew. And now you’re finding out what kind of man I really am. You lied for me. Pretended you knew everything when I kept things from you.”
“I know enough. I know what a great man you are.”
“No. You don’t.” He turned away from her. “Please. I just need… I need to be alone right now.”
Silence. Then, softly, she said, “All right. If that’s what you need.”
He heard her footsteps retreating, heard her pause at the door as if she might say something more. But then she was gone, and he was alone in the dining room with the remnants of their disastrous dinner.
Henry stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing. Then he walked to his study.
The room was dark except for the dying fire in the grate. He didn’t bother lighting more candles. He poured himself a whiskey—a large one—and drank it standing by the window, looking out at the black night.
